


The "J" Stands for Should've Been a Cowboy

by Shejo



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Episode: e060-066 The Stolen Century Parts 1-7, F/M, M/M, Post-Episode: e067-069 Story and Song Parts 1-3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shejo/pseuds/Shejo
Summary: Her fiery eyes meet his now—and she’s not angry that much he can tell. He’s positive that there’s not much, barring the neglect of his own selfcare, that could incur his wife’s wrath at this point. A long box sits in front of her and he sighs.[Barry-centric] [Rated M for later chapters][Also: this is tagged as M/M for later pairings]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Barry Bluejeans is a cowboy. Why are you booing me? I'm right!

Barry comes back into the lab after making a fresh pot of coffee. He’s poured over research for days and he’s stumped. So much so that Lup has found him passed out at his desk quite often even in the middle of the day.

Her fiery eyes meet his now—and she’s not angry that much he can tell. He’s positive that there’s not much, barring the neglect of his own selfcare, that could incur his wife’s wrath at this point. A long box sits in front of her and he sighs.

“I was looking for a pair of boots,” she says. Indeed, the box had once housed boots, but that was many, many decades ago. Many worlds ago.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Jeez, Lup,” he mutters. “I was gonna tell ya—”

“I haven’t plundered it. It looked private.” She pushes it towards him. The papers and scrolls beneath it slide and crunch.

Barry steps closer and sets his coffee down. He inhales as his fingers fiddle with the lid. Since the year the IPRE spent on the beach, he has probably only taken it out once or twice to peruse, and only kept it for sentimentality after that. One look at his quarters could tell you that the man was a packrat.

There’s a portrait of a young man he hasn’t been for some time. He remembers putting it on top of all the other mementos when he packed it since it was the one he had the most fondness for. There’s a twinge of a smile when he brushes his fingers over the face of a young Barold J. Bluejeans, decked out in his finest, pressed button-down and jeans. A beige felt (he remembers the material despite the painted depiction—remembers how the smell of soil and leather clung to it) fantasy Stetson with a square finish sits on his head. A fine blue roan steed rests his neck in the crook of Barry’s arm.

He adjusts his glasses and takes a seat. He turns the portrait to Lup to show her, though, she must have already seen it when she was looking for her shoes.

She handles it like a baby, practically cradles it in front of her. “I knew it,” she says with a grin. And it’s true. Lup’s always had the theory that he’d been quite the country boy in his past. She said she could tell by his build and rough hands that he hadn’t always been the IPRE’s biggest and most beloved nerdbomber.

That he grew up in a sleepy, agricultural village was no news. That much Barry had shared with everyone aboard the Starblaster. He didn’t go into much more detail than that. It was much more fun to see Lup runaway with the idea—most often in the bedroom where she liked to play a farmer’s lonely daughter—and dream up tableaus of pastures and ranch houses with wraparound porches.

“What was his name?” she asks.

“Smokey,” he says and when she makes a face, he clarifies. “Well, he had a much cooler show name than that.”

Lup raises an eyebrow, which typically means  _okay fuckwad, explain_  in the most loving way possible. So, he tells her all about how well-bred horses have a competitive name in addition to their everyday name—one that speaks to their bloodlines. “This was Halwinter’s Smokin’ Jewel.”

“Ooh. La di da,” her voice is full of mirth and fascination. “You couldn’t have come up with a cooler regular name, though? There must be like a thousand horses named Smokey.”

Barry laughs. “It’s bad luck to change a horse’s name, Lup.”

“You mean he wasn’t yours?”

There’s a long pause before he answers by patting the stool next to him. The rest of the ship has quieted, most everyone is off to bed. They won’t be disturbed.

To her credit, Lup doesn’t try to peek over into the rest of the box even though Barry can tell she’s itching to know what’s left in it. He pulls out four shining belt buckles and places them in a line in the chronological order in which he received them. Each is of fine, Dwarven smithing inlaid with jewels and the names of the circuits he participated in.

The first is the smallest—a youth championship from when he was a boy, and though it’s meant for a novice, it glitters just as much as the largest one that he ever earned. It reads:  _Mavenstown Youth Champion Team Roper - Heeler_.

Lup shoves his shoulder. “ _Barold_!” she exclaims and stops herself as she reaches for one. Her eyes seek permission from his and he nods.

She’s always been good about that. Even when she’s “dying for the deets,” Lup is careful to not overstep her bounds. Even though they were married for a couple of years now (an overdue affair if an unneeded one) they’ve always understood that they were not privy to each and every detail of each other’s past lives. At least, not all at once. 

Tan fingers dust over each buckle. “Barry Bluejeans: fantasy rodeo star,” she says with a flourish in her voice that’s almost wistful.

“I wouldn’t say ‘star,’” he says.

“Oh, please. Look at these! This one’s the size of my face.” She holds the third in the lineup in front of her eyes for emphasis and Barry lets out another chuckle.

“You’ll really get a kick out of this then,” he says as he pulls out something made of leather and folded.

Lup vibrates in her seat. “No fucking way,” she mutters as he unfurls the chaps to show off their color. They are purple at the flared ends with white trim and tassels. She reads the bubbled, western script on each leg next. “Bird’s Nest Fantasy Rodeo Association Champion All Around Cowboy.”

He can’t deny that he’s pleased by her reaction—how utterly flabbergasted she is that there’s a Barry in this box that has skills beyond necromantic. He holds the chaps out for her to take and she does.

“I had to do a few events to earn those. Roping, steer wrestling—”

“Hold up there, rhinestone cowboy. You, Barold J. Bluejeans, would throw cows on the ground?”

“Steers.”

“Same diff. That’s some barbarian level shit, babe.”

“I was a… sprightlier man then.” The unspoken sentence hangs in the air between them:  _I was a much younger man then._

Barry was always a hefty guy—stout and built to throw his weight around. He ate and ate well because bulk equaled strength on farm which meant you were useful.

“You and Smokey sure accomplished a lot,” she says as her grin widens. She’s proud of her man and this animal she’s never met.

Barry looks away to stir his coffee. He tries to measure his words so he doesn’t overload this conversation all at once. “Uh…Smokey wasn’t exactly a rodeo horse. He was my. . .retirement present. A trail horse. A buddy.” It’s that simple in some ways he thinks.

He figures it’s best to start at the beginning, dig up every bone from this box as it happened. Maybe not all in one night, but it’s been over a century since those days now and it might be time to purge. A century since he sat under the stars of the two-sunned world and smelled alfalfa and dew. A century since he’d sat tall in a saddle and waited with his heart in his throat for the buzzer to sound. He wishes he could play it all out for Lup in real time because it’s something you have to feel in the moment, under your skin and pounding. But a finely woven tale, like a folk song, may have to do instead.

He takes her by the waist, pulls her in close, and reaches back into the box once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry Bluejeans remembers, with perfect clarity, the day he decided rough-stock was not for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a little bit of baby Barry and his momma
> 
> Also thanks to my wonderful GF for her expert naming of both Fancy Hills and Barry's new bestie!

It was Marlena that started the habit. He remembers her stomach warm against his back, her arms circle around him as he sits between her and the pummel of Marlena’s worn, treeless saddle. Her hair envelopes them in a silver, curled veil as she leans forward to kiss the top of his head.

“Heels down, toes up, baby boy,” she says. And even though he can only see the flick of the horse’s ears in front of him, he can still feel his mother’s smile on top of his head. “Good job, Barry.”

The horse moves under them at a walk. _1\. . .2. . . 3 . . .4 . . ._

His grandfather has the lead line should anything go awry. But that won’t happen.

“Geeyup!” Barry says and slams his hands on the leather. The appaloosa’s ears move back at the sound, but he doesn’t seem disturbed. Marlena’s gelding, Duke, is as turnkey as they come—too aged to even bolt from a wolf.

“Look what you’ve done now,” his grandfather says. “You ain’t careful, you’ll have another cowboy on your hands.”

His mother only laughs, and it rings out against Barry’s insistent demands for the animal to go faster. And that’s it—he’s hooked.

 

* * *

 

Barry is five-years-old the first time his mother puts him on a mutton at the Fancy Hills Jackpot Rodeo.

But first, he watches her take a palomino—he remembers hating that color, but this one’s coat was the richest tan he’d ever seen—around the barrels. He stomps his little boots in the stands and shouts: “Turn n’ burn, Momma!”

Then he’s lifted up onto a pair of broad shoulders. He can hear Marlena grunt and click her tongue as she goes around barrel one. The horse makes barrel number two, but it’s tight and the barrel starts to tilt.

“Oh no!” Barry shouts.

Marlena reaches out, her palm steadies it as she makes the turn and leaves it upright. His grandfather lets out a triumphant “Ah-ha!” under him.

The horse rockets to the third barrel, only slowing to take that last turn before Marlena takes out her over-and-under and drives them both home. They are platinum and silver and sunlight as they blur across the arena.

“ _Fifteen-point-eight-five for Marlena Bluejeans and Stirling,_ ” the announcer says over a thaumaturgy spell. “ _Fifteen-point-eight-five._ ”

They meet back at the cart where Marlena is already loosening the girth on the horse and tying him up for a bit of afternoon hay.

“Not a bad run,” Barry’s grandfather says as he sets Barry down. “Should get you in the 3D at least.”

Marlena waves it off. It’s a look Barry would come to know very well. The one where she isn’t content with her performance, wishes she could run it again. And she will, at least in her head. Over and over.

“It’s Barry’s day today anyway, isn’t it?” She says as she kneels to him. “We gotta get you ready! Or you’ll miss your ride, cowboy.”

His tummy is in knots, but he grins all the same. “You did good, Momma.”

“You sure you wanna put that boy on a mutton?” his grandfather asks as Marlena suits Barry up with a helmet and padding.

“He said he wanted to try it, Daddy, and why not? If he don’t like it, he don’t have to do it anymore. We like tryin’ new things, don’t we, Barry?”

His mother’s smile is a silver buckle—shining and genuine. Barry nods his head in agreement.

Barry’s hands are in each of theirs as they make their way to the catch pen where a few other children wait for the arena to be dragged before their event. A little Dwarf girl walks up with her father.

“I never seen you before,” she says.

Her father chats up Marlena with talk of her run. He says he has some good horseflesh that needs barrel training. Marlena would be a good fit for the job.

“It’s my first time,” Barry tells the Dwarf girl.

“You’re gonna fall off, but that’s okay. Everyone falls off. Just don’t cry.”

“Brannie!” her father scolds.

“I won’t cry,” Barry promises. “I won’t cry, Brannie.”

Marlena gives him a pat on the back. “Barry, this is Branwynne. She’s from the next town over. I think you two will be riding a lot together.”

“Brannie” is the first to go of the children. The announcer introduces her as “ _Branwynne Ironbelly. Her favorite color is blue—_ ” That’s Barry’s favorite too! _“—And when she grows up, she wants to be rodeo queen!_ ”

Marlena hoists him up onto one of the rails in the catch pen so he can watch as the mutton bolts from the chute with Brannie bobbing all the way.

When she tumbles off the sheep after four seconds, the crowd goes wild and she dusts the knees of her jeans as a kindly rodeo bard leads her out. It’ll be a tough time to beat.

Everyone congratulates her as she makes her way back through the catch toward Barry. She shoves her arm out. In her hand is a thrown horseshoe plucked from the ground. “Luck!” she shouts and hands it over to Barry.

He takes it, awestruck, and sticks his other hand out. His grandfather always taught him to shake an opponent’s hand. Branwynne grins and shakes back, and it’s more like they’re two jumping beans than two competitors.

“ _Next is competitor number four, Barry Bluejeans,_ ” the announcer says. “ _He’s all the way from—Well, just down the road there a-ways—_ ”

The crowd rumbles with collective laughter.

“That’s you, little man!” Marlena says as he’s placed on the back of a sheep. “You’re gonna do great!”

“ _\--And when he grows up, he wants to be a science boy!”_

Barry isn’t so sure as he clings to this wooly soft, if not musty, animal. It brays beneath him and his little fingers clinch so tight on the thing, it’s a wonder he didn’t rip new socks right out of its coat. He doesn’t answer his mother because he’s sure that if he even opens his mouth, he’ll wail to be let off.

“ _There he goes!_ ”

And now Barry’s chubby arms are tight around the sheep’s neck as two cowboys get it to run out of the gate. There’s cheers, a scream, the muted sound of hooves sprinting in dirt as his small body jostles on the back of the mutton.

He makes the mistake of looking directly into the clay below them and he topples, vision a blur of orange and white and the brown of his boots.

“ _That’s a three-point-nine-two for little Barry Bluejeans! Good job, Barry Blue!_ ”

Barry, in fact, does not cry. But when he stands next to his new friend as they receive their first and second place ribbons, he does know with certainty that he’d rather not eat dirt ever again.


End file.
